


the long way down

by marquis



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Hiroto is visited by three ghosts oooh how spooky, it's all very orpheus and eurydice thank you for your time, more adequately hiroto visits three ghosts herself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:35:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28684929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marquis/pseuds/marquis
Summary: “I could never be as good as you,” Hiroto says, and wonders why that matters, why she feels as though that’s something she has to do. She’s only a pitcher.“Don’t try to be as good as me, then,” Moody says. Their voice is soft, gentle. Hiroto appreciates it; she’s not sure she’s in the mood for a lecture. “Try to live up to your own potential. We all have faith in you.”(What if, when blaseball players dream, they visit the Hall?)
Relationships: Hiroto Wilcox & Landry Violence, Hiroto Wilcox & Mclaughlin Scorpler, Hiroto Wilcox & Moody Cookbook
Comments: 12
Kudos: 21





	the long way down

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally inspired by a fic challenge with my partner where we gave each other songs and had to write a fic based on that. So thank you to Jamie, who assigned me "Dream of You" by mxmtoon.
> 
> However! I also have to thank Cola, for without them this fic never would have seen the light of day, truly. Thank you for your insight into the Tigers, and for helping me figure out what the vibe should be here. I adore you and appreciate your input. <3
> 
> This may not be canon compliant. I know absolutely nothing about the Tigers. (I do now have a LOT of feelings about them, though.)
> 
> Title from "Wait For Me" from Hadestown. Because of course.

There’s something wrong with Hiroto’s coffee. It tastes burnt, almost ashy in her mouth.

“Well,” Moody says, offering a smile, “that’s typical here, you know.”

Hiroto swirls the drink in her hands, watches the foam cling to the sides of the mug. “No, not… not this badly.”

Moody hums and clicks their tongue, flagging down a waiter with one hand. The café is new. Its name is painted onto all the mugs, but the font is too elaborate for Hiroto to read.

“You seem tense, Hiroto,” Moody says. They place a hand over hers, pressing her cup back down into its saucer. “What’s on your mind?”

The waiter brings another latte and sets it down. This one smells like peanuts; Hiroto thought she asked for lavender and vanilla, but her memory has been terrible lately. She hardly remembers getting out of bed this morning. The harder she tries to remember, the foggier it feels.

“I think,” she starts. Closes her mouth. Tries again. “There’s just so much pressure to do well, Moody. How do you manage it?”

Moody hums thoughtfully. They link arms with Hiroto and guide her around two people standing in front of a store window, admiring a display of corsets and gowns made of cloth so fine it looks like spiderweb. The toe of Hiroto’s shoe catches on a crack in the sidewalk, but Moody’s steps don’t falter even as they catch her weight.

“You have to learn to carry it,” Moody says. They tap two fingers on the inside of her elbow. “When you threw your first pitch, you didn’t know all of the steps. But now you’ve learned, and you can do it without thinking about the details. It’s the same thing.”

Another crack in the sidewalk. This time, Hiroto carefully steps over it, and catches Moody smiling down at her.

“This isn’t just about throwing pitches, though,” Hiroto says. “There’s more to it. I want to…”

She can’t finish the sentence. There’s more to it. There wasn’t always, but now, she knows the team is counting on her. For what, Hiroto isn’t exactly sure anymore.

“You want to lead,” Moody finishes for her. “An admirable thing, and one you won’t know how to do right away. It took me a number of years to get it right.”

They pass a café. Hiroto thinks it might be new; something about it looks familiar, and yet she knows this corner used to be something else. An apothecary, or maybe an oracle’s den. She tries to read the name, but can’t make out the words.

“I could never be as good as you,” Hiroto says, and wonders why that matters, why she feels as though that’s something she has to do. She’s only a pitcher.

“Don’t try to be as good as me, then,” Moody says. Their voice is soft, gentle. Hiroto appreciates it; she’s not sure she’s in the mood for a lecture. “Try to live up to your own potential. We all have faith in you.”

They pass a storefront full of evening gowns. A couple steps out of the doorway, covered in cobwebs and silk. When they reach the street corner, Hiroto tries to figure out what intersection they’re at. She’d thought she knew Hades well enough to avoid getting lost, but somehow, she keeps getting turned around.

“Moody,” Hiroto says. There’s a crack in the sidewalk again, a canyon through which flowers are sprouting. “You aren’t really here, are you?”

Moody turns to face her. They’re no longer smiling, but their eyes are gentle as they take her hands in their own.

“Hiroto,” Moody says. “This is where I say goodbye.”

“But why?”

A bell sounds in the distance. It’s a deep, resonant sound, one that reminds Hiroto of watching newcomers gather on the pier to wait for the ferry.

Moody nods and reaches into their pocket. “Technically, this is against the rules,” they say, pulling out a ball of twine. “But we can bend them, just a little bit.”

They press the ball of twine into her hands. Lightning flashes in the sky above and, for a moment, everything is illuminated – not with white, but with a deep, aching blue. Hiroto hears waves crashing against stone.

“You need to find your own way,” Moody says, “before you can show anyone else.”

Their eyes are black, so dark Hiroto can nearly see her own reflection. She moves to pull away, but Moody holds tight to her hands for a moment longer.

Lightning flashes again. A bell sounds.

“Well jeez. What do you think that’s all about?”

Hiroto is in her hole. It’s nice in here, cozy. There’s blankets, and snacks, and quiet. So why Scorpler has decided to dangle their feet down and bother her makes absolutely no sense at all.

“The weather?” Hiroto asks, glancing up at them with a frown. The floor of the hole is muddy underfoot, clinging to her shoes. She’ll have to use the tarp as a cover today. “It’s supposed to storm.”

The sky is so dark it feels like midnight, even though it’s the middle of the day. Hiroto wonders, although she can’t say why, if it actually is the middle of the day after all.

“What time is it?” she calls up to Scorpler.

“You got somewhere to be?” they ask. “I can drive, I know the way.”

The ladder on the side of the hole is more worn down than she remembers. The wood feels damp under her fingers, mildewed and rotting. She feels a little unsteady as she climbs her way out; Scorpler offers a claw to help when she gets close.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to drive me,” Hiroto says, once she’s safely at the top. She shoves her hands in the pockets of her jacket.

There’s a ball of string in one side. Hiroto rolls it between her fingers, tries to remember where it came from. Whatever the explanation, it’s lost to her. She’s been having trouble remembering things, lately.

“Is this because I don’t have a license?” Scorpler asks. Their jacket is lying on the ground beside them. Hiroto thought there was a tiger on the back, but with the way it’s folded, it almost looks like a skull. “I told you, I’m cleared by Ubler.”

It isn’t the license. Hiroto knows it isn’t. But she can’t think of exactly what it is.

“You can walk with me, if you want?” she offers, pushing off the ground to stand. “I don’t really want to be alone.”

The lights of the stadium are blinding. They’re shining so brightly, and from so many directions, that Scorpler doesn’t even have a shadow. They throw their jacket over one shoulder and kick up dirt with the toe of their cleat.

“You don’t have to be alone,” they say. “You have the whole team behind you.”

It doesn’t always feel that way. The Tigers love her, Hiroto knows that, but there’s a difference between being loved for who you are and being loved for what you can do. Scorpler, for all their flaws, has always been the kind of person people wanted to be around. Hiroto can’t say the same.

“How do I get them to like me?” Hiroto asks, a question she’s never dared to put words to before. “The way that they like you, I mean.”

“Oh, you know,” Scorpler shrugs, jacket falling slightly. The design looks like a squid, almost, the stripes of the tiger branching out like tentacles. “Grand larceny, mostly.”

“Scorpler, I’m serious.”

She doesn’t know why it’s bothering her so much. It’s not that she’s _bad_ at what she does. It’s not even that the team doesn’t appreciate her. But she wants to be remembered as more than just the girl who throws a good shutout.

“No, _I’m_ serious!” Scorpler says, gesturing at the empty stadium with their claw. “If none of them appreciate you, that’s _their_ problem. Do what makes you happy. Steal a car! Kill an ump! Dig more holes, or whatever.”

The dugout seems far away. Hiroto, somewhat impulsively, pulls the string from her pocket. It’s a rough twine, stiff against her fingers. As she unspools it, it winds around her fingers.

“Oh, cool,” Scorpler says, reaching to grab the end of the twine. “Moody give you that?”

They wrap the end around the tip of one claw. Hiroto watches them tie it into a bow. Or rather, she thinks she does; somehow, she blinks and finds they must not have grabbed it after all. It’s trailing on the ground behind them, a pathway leading her back to her hole.

“Oh, right,” Scorpler says. “I’m really not supposed to ask you this, but could you lend me some spare change? Pennies, preferably.”

“Why?”

Lightning flashes, and the world goes blue. A deep, echoing tone sounds across the stadium. Something about it reminds Hiroto of whale song.

Scorpler grins. “For the ferryman. You forgot to leave them on my ashes.”

There are two pennies in her pocket. She’s not sure where they came from, but she pulls them out and hands them over.

The spotlights flicker, and suddenly Scorpler is shrouded in shadow, claws and tail made of what might be barnacles. Their teeth still catch what little light remains, though their face looks gaunt and skeletal. Hiroto remembers, suddenly, watching Scorpler stare down an umpire as it prepared to light them on fire.

“Sorry,” they say sheepishly, once again kicking the ground with their shoe. “Forgot they like to go by The Monitor here.”

Hiroto’s heart aches. She reaches out, suddenly desperate to touch them and prove to herself they’re there. “Scorpler, where are you—”

They take a step back just as a curtain of rain falls over them both. Hiroto tastes salt; she’s not sure if it’s the raindrops or tears.

“You can’t come,” they say. “But don’t worry. You’ll be fine without us.”

The thunder is loud enough to rattle the ground under Hiroto’s feet. She didn’t put the tarp on her hole. She didn’t think to grab an umbrella. She didn’t think, she never thought, how is she possibly going to do everything they need—

Lightning flashes again. A bell sounds.

“Scorpler!”

Landry snaps his fingers. “That’s right, it must have been Scorpler.” He pulls out a glass from under the bar and pours her a cider. “Thanks, kid. This one’s on the house.”

“Wait,” Hiroto says.

The bar is lit by dozens of candles that smell like cinnamon and cloves. No one else is around, so it must be early. For some reason, Hiroto is having trouble remembering why she came here. She’s having trouble remembering why _Landry_ is here.

“No, no. No need to backtrack now,” Landry tells her, shaking his head. “Scorpler is absolutely the type to fill the leaderboard with swear words, you don’t need to feel bad for ratting them out.”

Hiroto sighs, resting her head on her hands. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Of course not.” Landry slides her glass over. “Here, take this.”

It’s delicious, like honey and pear and something spicy underneath, but even the warmth of alcohol can’t fight off the chill running through her. Hiroto pulls her sweater sleeves down over her fingers.

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to drink things here,” Hiroto says.

Landry tilts his head to one side. “And where, exactly, do you think you are?”

Hiroto doesn’t know. She thinks she remembers water, or a lighthouse. Things have been hard to remember lately. She looks down; there’s a ball of twine in her lap.

“I think we’re far from home,” Hiroto says softly. “I haven’t been this far into Hades before.”

Landry leans across the counter, tilts her chin up with his fingers. “Your home and mine are very different now, I’m afraid,” he says, and winks like they’re sharing a joke.

Whatever it is, Hiroto doesn’t understand. It feels like Landry is three steps ahead in this conversation, like she can’t possibly hope to catch up. The feeling is a familiar one, by now. Water drips from Landry’s fingers to the table; he must have forgotten to dry his hands after washing the dishes.

“Where are you?” she asks. The question comes to her unbidden, from a place in her brain she can’t seem to unravel. Trying to make sense of it sets off a sharp, bright pain behind her eyes.

“Somewhere you cannot follow,” Landry says, “though I must say I’m not sorry about that.”

The twine in her lap is unwound. She doesn’t remember doing that, doesn’t remember leaving so much of it behind. Someone should have stopped her, she thinks, and told her she was doing that. It seems so silly to leave it on the ground. Unthinking, Hiroto starts to wrap the frayed thread back around her finger.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Landry says. “Moody was right to give it to you. Getting home will be harder without a guide.”

“How do I get home?”

“The same way you got here. You walk.”

He makes it sound so easy. Landry has only ever been this way, a pillar for everyone else to lean on. Hiroto wonders if he ever found that tiring.

Found. Past tense.

Landry is gone. Just like Scorpler, just like Moody.

Something rumbles outside. A wind blows through the bar, though none of the windows are open; with it, dozens of candles flicker out.

“How can I be brave?” Hiroto asks.

“Hiroto,” Landry says, and it’s the same voice he used when he reminded her to rinse out her dishes when she finished her tea. “You already are.”

Another breeze blows through the room. More candles vanish, and when Hiroto looks at the window, the remaining flames are not reflected back. Something dark lurks just outside, beyond the door. But that’s where the twine is headed. That’s the direction Hiroto knows she is supposed to go.

"I wish you could come back with me."

Landry shakes his head. "You know I cannot."

She does know. It isn't all clear to her, not yet, but she knows this journey is hers alone.

“I’m scared, Landry,” she says, staring at the twisting path of the twine across the hardwood floor.

He puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes. It’s hard enough to make her wince, enough to ground her in the moment.

“You know how to lead, Hiroto,” Landry says. “And you also know the rules. Never look back.”

She takes a deep breath and stands, pushing her chair away from the bar. Just as she’s told, she doesn’t look at Landry as she walks toward the door. It swings open without her help, revealing endless water on the other side.

But the twine floats within it, drifting in the current on the ocean floor. Hiroto takes a deep breath and steps into it, watches the water part around her boot. The second step is easier, and the third, and the fourth.

The twine rubs her hands raw. The sand turns to pavement, split apart with cracks that look like canyons. Holes line the sidewalk on either side, lit from below with fire that looks like ice. Still, Hiroto keeps walking. Still, she keeps her eyes straight ahead.

The stadium, or a close approximation of it, appears on her left. Still, Hiroto keeps walking.

Through the shadowy water she sees a café she can’t read the name of, a storefront full of cobweb and corsetry. Still, Hiroto keeps walking.

The bell of the ferryman rings, and rings, and rings. Still, Hiroto keeps walking.

She does not look back. But if she did, she would see shadows gathering there, each and every one of them cheering her on.

When she wakes, the streetlight outside her bedroom window casts the room in a deep, orange glow. Hades has never been the most welcoming place; for now, it is the only place Hiroto wants to be.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me at @leonstamatis on tumblr! i'm also @marquis in the main discord, but i never ever say anything there, so tumblr is your best bet. thanks so much for reading!


End file.
